Thinking of You
by enigste1
Summary: Don receives a piece of longlost mail. Fluff. Oneshot.


_A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged; it is the skin of a living thought, and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and the time in which it is used._

_-- Oliver Wendell Holmes_

**Thinking of You.**

Don Eppes stepped into his darkened apartment and leaned against the door to close it, a weariness so profound stealing over his body it was all he could do not to drop to his knees on the spot.

The last case he'd been working on was a race against time. Their suspect was a cold, methodical killer who kidnapped female college students, kept them almost exactly one week and then tortured them until they died. The FBI had enlisted the help of Don's brother yet again and they'd finally caught up with the guy just as he was about to snag his next victim. Too late for the previous six young women, but at least he wouldn't be doing it any more.

Three days on stakeout and Don was exhausted. He could have passed the responsibility on to another agent, but his inner sense of justice drove any thought of rest from his mind. Don was like a man possessed. Nothing and no one could have made him back away from this case. And now, without that extra infusion of adrenalin, he was in danger of complete mental and physical collapse. Not to mention the depression that battled for dominance. This case had been nerve-wracking, to say the least.

He willed his reluctant muscles to propel him as far as the couch, not trusting them to get him all the way to the bedroom. He dropped onto the leather cushions with a heavy sigh, resolving to grab a quick nap here and move to his bed later. As he was about to lie down, Don realized he still held the envelopes and flyers he'd collected from his mailbox downstairs when he'd entered the building. He really hadn't been interested in the metal container's contents, but it had been so crammed with paper products that he knew he'd stop receiving any mail at all if he didn't clear it out soon.

Reaching out, Don let fall the stack of papers and envelopes onto the coffee table. The pile immediately cascaded to the floor and he gazed at it dispassionately, not having the energy to pick it up. He stared at the assortment of brightly colored circulars and white envelopes until they blurred and coalesced into darkness.

-x-x-x-x-x-

He awoke while it was still dark out and the streetlights filtered through the windows, casting muted light across the hardwood floor. Don blinked, unsure at first of what he was looking at. He hadn't so much as twitched as he slept, and it took a moment for him to recognize the flyers and envelopes from earlier.

He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the couch and pushed himself to a semi-seated position, gathering up his mail as he went. Leaning heavily into the cushions, Don passed a hand over his face and encouraged his eyes to focus on the items in his grasp. He easily sorted out the advertisements and circulars, tossing them onto the tabletop, and shuffled the envelopes together. Pushing himself up from the couch he made his way down the hall to his bedroom.

Don set the stack on the bedside table and switched on the small lamp, pulling off his clothes and heading into the bathroom to shower. He emerged a few minutes later clad in sleep pants and an old t-shirt, scrubbing his hair with a towel. He tossed the linen at the hamper next to his dresser, pausing momentarily to gather his discarded clothes from the floor and add them as well. Don then crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the pile of envelopes.

Several of the letters were bills and these he set to one side to be dealt with in the morning. Then he carefully went through the remaining envelopes. There were only three: a statement from his bank, a letter soliciting donations for charity and an old, beaten, weatherworn blue envelope, his name barely legible on the outside, covered with change-of-address stickers. The last and clearest bore his name and current address, although the apartment number was incorrect. Tilting it under the glow of the bedside lamp, Don could just barely make out a cancellation stamp. It appeared to have been originally sent more than two years ago.

Don contemplated leaving it until the morning, but his curiosity got the better of him and he carefully unstuck the flap and looked inside. The content appeared to be some sort of card. He pulled it out and read the front.

'For When You're Feeling Blue…

…Know That I Miss You.'

It had a black and white picture of a small boy wearing nothing but coveralls staring despondently at a flower. He smiled slightly and then opened the card. His eyes skimmed over the inscription, drawn instead to the careful handwriting just inside the front of the card.

'Don,

I just got off the phone with you a few hours ago. You were in Elsie, Nebraska, remember? Did you ever catch the guy you were chasing? Never mind. None of my business, I know.

You sounded so tired, Don. I hope you've been looking after yourself. I can't imagine how lonely and depressing it must be to do your job. I know you've got people you work with that you rely on for company as well as being your co-workers, but it still has to be hard to do what you do and not throw in the towel.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be here if you want to talk. Anytime, Don. Just pick up the phone, okay? Take care."

Still smiling gently, Don leaned back against the headboard and picked up the phone on his bedside table. Dialing a number from memory, he waited until the call was picked up.

"Hello?" The voice wasn't fuzzy with sleep, as one would expect at that time of night.

Don chuckled. "Hey," he greeted. "It's just me."

"What are you doing up at this hour?"

He turned the card over in his hands and gazed at the little boy. "Reading my mail," he replied slowly. After a pause, he added, "I just got a card that was mailed a couple of years ago – around about the time I was in Fugitive Recovery."

"A card?"

Don nodded, even though he knew he couldn't be seen. "Blue envelope," he said. "Picture of a kid with a flower on it." He heard a small gasp. "You remember it?"

"Yeah… I do."

"Well," the agent replied. "I just wanted to let you know – I was having a… rough day." Don hesitated. "I don't know how to explain the timing, but… Thanks."

He could barely hear Charlie's soft laughter. "Anytime, Don," he said. "Anytime."


End file.
